Van den Bosch.

Ho! what is this?

I pray you, speak it in the Burghers' tongue;

I lack the scholarship to talk in tropes.

Artevelde. Then view the matter naked as it stands :

Shall I, who, chary of tranquillity,

Not busy in this factious city's broils,

Nor frequent in the market-place, eschew'd

The even battle,—shall I join the rout?

Van den Bosch. Times are sore changed, I see; there's

none in Ghent

That answers to the name of Artevelde.

Your father did not carp nor question thus

When Ghent besought his aid. The days have been
When not a citizen drew breath in Ghent

But freely would have died in freedom's cause.

Artevelde. With a good name the cause you christen.
True;

In choice of despots is some freedom found,
The only freedom for this turbulent town,
Rule her who may. And in my father's time
We still were independent, if not free ;

And wealth from independence, and from wealth
Enfranchisement, will partially proceed.

The cause, I grant you, Van den Bosch, is good;
And were I link'd to earth no otherwise

But that my whole heart centred in myself,

I could have toss'd you this poor life to play with,
Taking no second thought. But as things are,

I will review the matter warily,

And send you word betimes of my resolve.

Van den Bosch. Betimes it must be; for some two

hours hence

I meet the Deans of crafts, and ere we part

Our course must be determined.

Artevelde.

If I be for you, I will send this ring

In two hours,

In token I'm so minded. Fare you well.

Van den Bosch. Philip Van Artevelde, a greater man

Than ever Ghent beheld we'll make of you,

If you be bold enough to try this venture.

God give you heart to do so, and farewell.

[Exit VAN DEN BOSCH.

Artevelde. Is it vain-glory which thus whispers me

That 'tis ignoble to have led my life

In idle meditations—that the times

Demand me, echoing my father's name?
Oh! what a fiery heart was his! such souls
Whose sudden visitations daze the world,
Vanish like lightning, but they leave behind
A voice that in the distance far away
Wakens the slumbering ages. Father! Yes,
Thy life is eloquent, and more persuades
Unto dominion than thy death deters;
For that reminds me of a debt of blood
Descended with my patrimony to me,

Whose paying off would clear my soul's estate.

Enter CLARA.

Clara. Was some one here? I thought I heard you

Clara. Why then I trust the orator your tongue
Found favour with the audience your ears;

But this poor orator of mine finds none,
For all at once I see they droop and flag.
Will you not listen? I've a tale to tell.

Artevelde. My fairest, sweetest, best beloved girl!
Who in the whole world would protect thy youth

If I were gone?

Clara.

Gone! where? what ails you, Philip? Artevelde. Nowhere, my love. Well, what have you to tell?

Clara. When I came home, on entering the hall

I stared to see the household all before me.
There was the steward sitting on the bench,
His head upon his hands between his knees;
In the oak chair old Ursel sate upright
Swaying her body-so-from side to side,

Whilst maids and varlets stood disconsolate round.

What cheer? quoth I. But not a soul replied.
Is Philip well? Yea, Madam, God be praised.
Then what dost look so gloomy for, my friend?
Alack a-day, the stork! then all chimed in,
The stork, the stork, the stork! What, he is sick?
No, Madam; sick !—he's gone-he's flown away!
Why then, quoth I, God speed him! speaking so
To raise their hearts, but they were all-too-heavy.
And, Philip, to say truth, I could have wish'd
This had not happen'd.

Artevelde.

I remember now,

I thought I miss'd his clatter all night long.

Clara. Old Ursel says the sign proved never false

In all her time, and she's so very old!

And then she says that Roger was esteem'd
The wisest stork in Ghent, and flew away

But twice before—the first time in the night
Before my father took that office up
Which proved so fatal in the end; and then

The second time, the night before he died.

Artevelde. Sooner or later, something, it is certain, Must bring men to their graves.

Is death's forerunner.

Our every act

It is but the date

That puzzles us to fix.

My father lived

In that ill-omen'd office many a year,

And men had augur'd he must die at last
Without the stork to aid. If this be all
The wisest of his tribe can prophesy,

I am as wise as he. Enough of this.

You have been visiting your friend to-day,—
The Lady Adriana.

She is impatiently expecting you.

Artevelde. Can she with such impatience flatter one

So slothful and obscure as Artevelde?

Clara. How mean you?

Artevelde.

Clara, know I not your sex?

Is she not one of you? Are you not all,

All from the shade averse? All prompt and prone

To make your idol of the million's idol ?

Had I been one of these rash White-Hood chiefs

Who live by military larceny,

Then might I well believe that she would wait

Impatiently my coming.

Clara.

There you're wrong;

She never loved the White-Hoods.

Artevelde.

She were wise

In that unloving humour to abide;
To wed a White-Hood, other ills apart,
Would put in jeopardy her fair possessions.
Fatal perchance it might be to her wealth;
Fatal it surely would be to her weal.

Farewell her peace, if such a one she loved.

Clara. Go ask her, Philip,-ask her whom she loves,

And she will tell you it is no such man,

Why go you not?